Page 26 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
He finishes his coffee and sets the mug aside. “I should let you get ready for training.”
“Quintus?” He pauses at the door. I blurt the only thing that feels safe. “Thank you. For last night. For this. For… understanding.”
He inclines his head. “Thank you for trusting me with your pleasure. I hope you know how extraordinary you are.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me in the doorway with my sheet slipping down and my coffee cooling in my hands.
Extraordinary.The word echoes through me, both terrifying and intoxicating.
During training, the afterglow has turned into a distraction. Maya calls us to attention, but I’m only half-present, my body still tuned to the memory of his mouth, his hands. Every time Quintus steps into my line of sight, I flush like a teenager. When his fingers adjust my elbow during a drill, the brush is too brief, too professional—and yet awareness sparks through me as if he’d caressed me.
“Better,” he murmurs, his breath warm at my ear. “Trust your instincts.”
Trusting my instincts is the problem. They’re screaming at me to drag him into the nearest empty room.
Karen, my sparring partner, catches my distracted expression and smirks. “You look… relaxed today.”
“Do I?”
“Thoroughly.” Her grin is wicked.
I cut her off before she can say more, but the heat in my cheeks gives me away. And when Elena actually winks at me across the mat, I know I’m not fooling anyone.
By lunch, I need grounding. The universe obliges in the form of Flavius, who drops into our group like a one-man circus act. He launches into a story about this morning’s weapons demonstration, complete with sound effects and hand flourishes.
Once, I might have laughed outright. Today, I manage a polite smile. His energy is infectious, his charisma undeniable—but next to Quintus’s quiet steadiness, it feels like too much for me.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t appealing. Just not to me. Some woman will love being swept up in his spotlight. I’ve realized I prefer the steady glow of a flame that warms rather than dazzles.
Later, my laptop pings with my midterm grade. I blink at the screen and reread it three times just to be sure.
A+.Exceptional analysis with innovative applications. Your grasp of nonprofit leadership is both sophisticated and original.
From the woman Scott once said was “lucky community college would even take.”
My throat tightens as I screenshot the feedback and send it to Michael, David, and Ava. Their replies flood in within minutes—Michael’s quiet pride, David’s emojis, Ava’s exuberant joy.
The best part? Having someone to share it with. Not just my kids. Quintus.
Last week, when Professor Muransky praised my “graduate-level thinking,” I’d rushed to tell him. We’d been lingering after dinner, and I couldn’t hide my excitement.
“She said my strategies show graduate-level thinking,” I’d told him, almost sheepish.
His answer had been immediate, simple, certain: “That does not surprise me. I’ve seen your understanding in the way you speak about the sanctuary programs. You see beyond surfaces—you see the deep work of healing.”
I’d laughed nervously, unsure how to take such conviction. But he hadn’t mocked or diminished me. He’d asked questions, let me think through my ideas out loud, treated my half-formed thoughts like seeds worth nurturing.
“You believe I could actually do this,” I’d whispered.
“I believe you could do anything you set your mind to,” he’d said, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.
No one has ever celebrated me that way. Not Scott. Not anyone.
Now, staring at the glowing screen and the wordsexceptional analysis,I realize how much I crave that—being seen, not just as a body but as a mind. Having someone to talk to who doesn’t clip my wings.
That night, I call Ava. She takes one look at me through the phone camera and grins.
“You’re glowing, Mom.”
